Free Dead Man’s Shoes by Leo Bruce Page B

trees to find a spacious enclosed area of parkland, so that from nowhere was the house overlooked, yet it was not crowded in or made gloomy by too many trees near it.
    Carolus was full of admiration, and even Rupert said, “I can’t understand why it hasn’t been turned into an asylum. It’s too beautiful to be allowed to belong to anyone in this day and age.”
    But it had belonged, and very much so, to Gregory Willick. A fortune made in Calcutta had enabled at least one of England’s fine old houses to be kept for the purpose for which it was built—a gentleman’s residence.
    The door was opened by a little man in a grey jacket and an apron.
    â€œIs Mrs Sweeny in?” Carolus asked.
    There was none of the
savoir faire
of a family butler about the little man in the apron. He was deaf, it appeared, and said “Eh?”
    Carolus repeated his question.
    â€œOh, ay. I’ll go and see. You wait a minute. No, you better come in. Stay here while I go and ask her. Mind this floor, it’s just been polished and the mat’s up. Wait here, will you?”
    He disappeared.
    In a few moments Marylin Sweeny was with them, and it was at once obvious that Packinlay had not exaggerated her beauty. But he had said nothing about something equallynoticeable—her charm. She was full of it; it enveloped her like a cloud. ‘What a charming woman!’ You could hear the words ringing through the conversations of all who knew her. ‘She’s so lovely; but what I adore about her is that she’s so sweet with everyone.’
    â€œI’m wildly sorry,” she said now as she approached them. “Old Hoppy’s such an ass. I’ve been telling him for years what to do, and he’s still apt to send everyone round to the back door. You’re Carolus Deene, aren’t you? Gilbert Packinlay’s told me all about you. Do come in.”
    She led the way to a comfortable room with a great many well-arranged flowers in it.
    Carolus with an apologetic smile said he couldn’t help telling her how beautiful they were.
    She smiled back.
    â€œMy old Greg adored flowers and I used to keep the place full of them. I took a course in flower arrangement because I knew he liked it. Now the gardeners keep on bringing them in, and I do them because somehow I think it would please him. I hope that doesn’t sound too sentimental.”
    â€œDo you intend to keep on this house, Mrs Sweeny?”
    â€œI’d like to, but I don’t think it will be possible. Greg made the place over to me about a year ago, and at the same time gave me a block of capital. But apparently that’s all subject to death duties now. Perhaps by selling everything except the house itself and a bit of land round it I can just manage, but it’s not going to be easy. I know he wanted me to live on here.”
    â€œEverything goes to his nephew?”
    â€œLance. Yes. Pity, you’ve just missed him. He came down yesterday and spent the night. He was off this morning on the 8.15 for London to leave for Tangier tonight. He never stays long when he comes.”
    â€œI haven’t met him yet.”
    â€œYou’ll like him, I think. I always have and Greg did.It’s quite right that he should come into Greg’s money, you know.”
    â€œWhen did he arrive in England?”
    â€œLast Wednesday, I believe, by air. He knew this man Larkin in Tangier and went to meet his ship on Thursday. Oddly enough I don’t think he believed Larkin was guilty and I think he was going to arrange for him to have lawyers and that sort of thing. But of course he heard, when the ship came in, that Larkin had confessed and jumped overboard.”
    â€œIt’s not quite as simple as that, Mrs Sweeny. There’s no proof that he committed suicide, and his confession was typed without a signature. It’s possible that he was murdered. Did you ever see